


Offering

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Clearing the air, Declarations Of Love, Lots of it, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, just talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6619639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes off his disguises, convinced Sherlock has always been able to see through them anyway. He thinks that's enough, to be visible. Turns out he's harder to see than he imagined, even for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started as a one-off Tumblr ficlet but...grew. Given the nature of Tumblr, some people asked me to post it on here as well so they'd have a chance of finding out the end of the story once it's posted.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Tell me about typos, please. Also lapses in verb tense, as I am not as used to writing in present tense as past and caught myself slipping numerous times.

Sherlock walks in to 221b and finds John already there.

He’s sitting in his chair. He’s been sitting there for somewhere between one (the cover askew) and three (when Sherlock was last there) hours.

He’s staring at Sherlock’s empty chair. Or at the window, it’s hard to tell from the door.

He doesn’t look up as Sherlock enters the room, but he’s obviously heard him come in.

***

Sherlock takes his time unbuttoning his coat and letting it slide down his shoulders, hanging it up by the collar. He does not look away from John while he does this. 

From where he is standing, he can see John’s head, from behind and to the side - that is, his ear and most of his right eye, his drawn up mouth and tense jaw - and his shoulders. He can’t see John’s left side at all, but he can tell that his head is resting on his left fist. He can see the stiffness in John’s shoulders, the way he sets them at attention when he is casting about for something he can be in control of.

Under Sherlock's scrutiny, John does not look away from Sherlock’s armchair.

Sherlock is waiting for the deductions to fall into place. He knows John is there, and for how long, and he knows there is something - _something -_ the matter because of the set of his shoulders and the determined way he is not looking at Sherlock _._

He doesn’t know _why_ , though. It looks almost as though he has something he wants to say, something he wants to tell Sherlock. But that is...unlikely. Improbable.

(John does not tell Sherlock much these days.)

***

There are six possibilities.

“John.”

No response. _Four possibilities_.

“Did you get my text?” (He hasn’t texted, but watches for John's reaction.)

No reaction at all. _Three possibilities._  And no way to narrow it down, not without a look at John’s shoes.

***

If he could see what shoes John was wearing, and the state of the laces, he would know. John’s shoes are always so articulate. They always were, even back Before. And Since, well, Since, they’ve told a different story.

He tells himself he does not think of John’s socked feet resting on the edge of his armchair, the wrinkles in them as the toes curled and wriggled beside his leg. That was an anomaly. He still does not dare even to glance at the deductions that came from John’s warm feet in socks, so close. John always wears shoes, has always worn shoes in Baker Street; not Before, but always Since. (It is just as well, since they tell him so much about what John tries to keep hidden.)

If he could see John’s shoes, he could begin to deduce.

Brown brogues, tightly laced? Or perhaps suede ankle boots...different of course if the laces are slack - Sherlock ticks through the different scenarios, each one matched with a pair of John’s shoes, laced according to how badly John wants to hide.

It is necessary to think about John in this way. Every interaction must now be coupled with deductions, or he’d never know anything. As it is, he is never _entirely_  sure he deduces correctly. If the laces are very tight, it is more like a guess. (He does sometimes guess.)

***

At last, he moves. There is nothing for it. If John will stay seated, staring at Sherlock’s chair, then Sherlock must sit there, and see if it helps. If John has something he wants to say, he wants to say it to Sherlock _in his chair._ And Sherlock can look at John’s shoes, and try to hear what he isn’t saying. (That’s how they are, these days.)

So Sherlock shrugs to himself, and paces across the room. He takes a breath and sits down. Only then does he allow himself a glance at John’s shoes.

He freezes. His eyes go wide in shock - this can’t, this isn’t even one of the possibilities, it is not merely improbable, but there it is, and he has spent so much time deducing John from how thoroughly he is shod that there can be no question, now, what this could mean, and no suppressing the deductions, which slam into his solar plexus and force his eyes to go wide with shock.

He _stares._ He hasn't...he hasn't accounted for this possibility at all.

John’s feet are _bare_. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John with his bare feet thinks he's finally being honest.

John’s feet are bare.

John, who keeps himself buttoned and buckled and laced before Sherlock at all times and has done for years, is now sitting barefoot in his armchair, directly across from Sherlock.

_Defiantly_  barefoot. (Sherlock’s mind supplies the adverb without his consent. It is nonsensical and also completely accurate.) Defiantly barefoot. 

Why barefoot? Why defiant? 

***

Within seconds of his arrival at the flat tonight, Sherlock formed several theories as to why John might be waiting in his chair at Baker Street, and narrowed it down to three before he finished taking off his coat. The final conclusion depended on what shoes John was wearing, and how they were tied.

Now he looks at John’s bare feet and can’t think of a theory that can match them. There is no possible explanation that does not veer wildly into the realm of the impossible. Sherlock cannot even identify those, merely blinks, and blinks again, and thinks of high roofs and empty vaults.

(It was bad enough that time when the feet were in socks, which absolutely _could not_  have any meaning at all, was an outlier, to be discounted, though herculean effort, even for his well-fortified mind. This is…worse. Quite a lot worse.)

Sherlock cannot ask him, _why are your feet bare?_  Because sometimes people do take off their shoes, for all sorts of reasons, and John probably doesn’t know how much his little naked feet are telling Sherlock right now. (So much that it might as well be nothing.)

When he looks at John’s face, though, he sees that he is getting ready to speak. He has seen Sherlock, has seen Sherlock seeing his bare feet, and has become, if anything, more defiant.

***

Sherlock settles in. He does not expect John to speak soon, or quickly, or to say what he means without a great deal of stuttering. 

But John’s words, when they come, are swift and sure. Not quite angry. _Defiant._

“I love you.” That is how he starts, the soles of his feet pressed together. “I am in love with you. I came here to tell you once before, when you were dead and couldn’t hear me, and I couldn’t say it. I sat right here, just like this. For hours, and couldn’t say it to an empty chair. The next day was when I moved out.”

John pauses and it must be because there is no more oxygen in the room. Sherlock’s own lungs are empty and he has forgotten to refill them and can’t anyway because the air is gone.

Impossibly, John keeps talking, even in the absence of oxygen. “Obviously you knew, you always know, you don’t have to lie and say you didn’t know. I guess you thought it was a kindness, not saying anything about it. I guess it was.” Here John gives a harsh laugh. “Anyway, I know you don’t want me to say it either, I know you hate this, but. I can’t even be bothered to be sorry. I’ve lost everything.” John gives a sniff. This is the longest Sherlock has ever heard him speak. “That’s it, Sherlock. I have absolutely nothing left to lose so I’m saying it out loud. Even though you already know. I am in love with you.” He closes his mouth grimly and falls silent.

***

John is not looking at Sherlock’s face, but at the bookshelf behind his right shoulder. He is stiff and tense. Sherlock has seen him like this a hundred times, just before he closes off completely and stomps down the stairs to go and get some air. He can’t today, though. His feet are bare. So he stays, and sits, and quivers with - the only word that comes - _defiance._  

Sherlock still has not managed to breathe. He wants to speak - just John’s name would do - but he can’t fill his lungs. He does not seek John’s eyes but keeps his eyes fixed on John’s bare feet, the sides of them resting on the carpet.

_He sat like this when I was dead. I was dead and he sat like this and those were the words that he couldn’t say._  

His eyes drift up to John’s face, while his lungs catch on and fill themselves. He has breath now to speak, but no wits, and no clear thoughts. Just noise. He wonders what he will say. 

“John.” It is a croak. John blinks, so he is listening. Still looking away. “I - I didn’t know.”

Another slow blink, and he drags his eyes to Sherlock’s face. They stare at one another.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of John's unexpected love confession.

They are staring at each other across a small stretch of carpet that has suddenly grown to the width and depth of a chasm.

John has said, _I love you_ , and is now glaring at Sherlock as though daring him to say anything – or forbidding him. One or the other.

Sherlock has had the air sucked out of his lungs, and is relearning how to breathe, beat by agonised beat. All from this small piece of intelligence that John believes he already knew.

He didn’t know. He has said that to John, _I didn’t know,_ but has no idea if John believes him, and no more breath to ask. There is something else, too, an odd feeling swirling around his chest and behind his eyes, one he has no name for, but which is preventing him from saying any more. (On the whole, he feels, that is for the best.)

For the best, because John is looking at him with something like shock on his face. There are flickerings behind his eyes but nothing Sherlock can see the shape of. His mouth works for several seconds and then resolves into a smile. Not the good kind.

The other kind of John Watson smile. The nameless feeling in Sherlock’s chest and forehead intensifies, begins to buzz slightly.

***

John, in his chair, smiles, and breathes, and says, “You didn’t know? You didn’t _know._ You want me to believe that out of everything you could tell just by looking at me, _that_ was the bit that escaped your notice?”

The buzzing feeling makes a space for Sherlock to take a breath. “It’s no concern of mine what you believe, John.” The feeling is clearer now. He feels he may light on the name for it in another moment. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Like it wasn’t completely fucking obvious.”

And just like that, he names the feeling, gripping his chest and pulsing behind his eyes. It is _anger._ No, it is absolute blind, seething _rage._ One nostril twitches, and his chin lifts. “Obvious, yes. Hard to decide when it was most apparent. When you bloodied my nose, or when you married someone else. Sweet, really. Romantic. You’re right, I should have seen it.”

John makes an incredulous noise, but bites it off, and stares. He is silent for a long moment. Then, “That was – I was angry then. I had reason to be.” Defensive, now. The defiance is faltering. There is no softening, though.

Sherlock doesn’t back down. “Angry, I see. Was that when you chinned me, or when you got married?” A narrow glare. “I can’t deduce from no evidence, John. I could see you were angry. You got angrier and angrier. John Watson, Angry Army Doctor. There wasn’t anything I could do without making you angry – getting high, getting a girlfriend, getting shot, getting deported – didn’t seem to matter. You seem pretty angry right now, in fact. I know I’m not the expert in human behaviour that you are, but is that kind of anger a sign of someone who’s _in love?”_ His voice almost breaks on the last word, but he presses on. “Because I thought flowers were more traditional.” Sarcasm is safe. He all but spits it.

There is a pause, a silence that drags on between them while they glare at one another. John has said he is in love with Sherlock and their shared rage looks set to burn Baker Street to the ground.

***

And this is not, this is _not,_ this _is not_ how Sherlock wants this to go. Not that he has ever thought this possible, but surely if the man you have loved more than your own life for years – and proven it time and time again – if he suddenly tells you that he loves you as well, surely blind rage is not the appropriate response? Part of him is wailing, is howling,  is screaming at him to cross the divide, wrap his arms around John’s waist and bury his face in his jumper, and weep and weep, and pour out all the answering words that have been suppressed so well for so long.

But he is good at silencing that voice, having always known with utter certainty that his attentions would be unwelcome. Looking at John’s face – closed and forbidding despite the words he has said – Sherlock is no more certain of a welcome than he has ever been. In some ways, less than ever.

John is still silent. Sherlock is getting angrier by the second. “Nothing to say? No, I suppose you’ve said enough already. But tell me, John, now that you’ve _unburdened_ yourself, what is it you think I should say? Hm?” He looks inquiring, nothing more. Politely curious. His voice is brusque, businesslike. Cold. These are his weapons, and from John’s twitchy smile he can see he’s hit his mark. “Well? Assuming I already knew, assuming you’ve not told me anything at all surprising, at all remarkable. As you believe. So? Now what? What, exactly, are you expecting from me?”

“Nothing.” Swiftly, eyes closed. Expressionless. Then he opens his eyes again and looks Sherlock straight in the eye. “Absolutely fucking nothing.”

 _Oh._ No one can bypass Sherlock’s defenses like John can. The flatness of his tone pierces all of his cold armour and sinks deep into his heart. His lips twitch – where is his control? He has one last salvo. If this doesn’t work, he is lost. _Cold._ Indifferent. _Do it._

He sneers. “Then why are you still here?” He doesn’t think his voice trembles. (John never notices anything anyway. Even less than he thought.)

“You’re right.” John looks at him another long moment, then stands. “There’s no reason.”

He heads for the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't actually leave. There are several layers of reasons for this.

John is leaving.

He has delivered his confession of love for Sherlock, has dropped it with a heavy  _clunk_ onto the carpet by the hearth in Baker Street, where it now lies, inert and immovable, filling the space with its gravity, ugly and - he thinks - unwanted.

Sherlock cannot bring himself to want this misshapen hunk, though an hour ago he would have said it was all that he desired. Apparently the manner of its delivery has marred it beyond recognition. He  _hates_ it. He can barely see past his own rage.

John is angry too, his reasons unclear but his fury unmistakable. Whatever forced him to come in the first place, he has had enough, and he is leaving. Now.

***

There is only one problem with this: _John is not wearing shoes_.

Although Sherlock, in his consternation, has lost sight of the simple fact that drew his attention in the first place, John is still barefoot. His shoes are beside the fireplace.  He steps onto the bare boards of the stairwell and stops.

Sherlock hears John curse under his breath. He sits on high alert – for John to be thwarted when he is already so angry can only be a bad thing.  

His own anger is still simmering beneath the surface. This is how Sherlock has always argued, picking at John, taking shots from behind his fortress of disdain, raising the stakes until John walks out. So that he can say to himself, _I knew he would leave, I always knew it_ , and comfort himself with being right. Alone and right.

***

How long has John been in love with him? How many things would be different if Sherlock had known? And John didn’t tell him, and John thinks it wouldn’t have made a difference at all, and John – who knows him best of anyone and best of all – knows _absolutely nothing._

Knows nothing and notices nothing. Has never noticed anything. But surely if you love someone, you look at them occasionally?

John says he loves Sherlock.  How can he have failed to see?

Sherlock can’t let his guard down until after John has left, and John cannot leave without his shoes. Sherlock wraps his anger around him like a coat and hunkers down to wait. He does not know what John will do.

***

What John does is to sit down on the top step and put his head in his hands. He breathes deeply with his elbows on his knees and does nothing more for a long while. After several minutes, Sherlock hears him laughing. It is not a pleasant sound.

Presently he gets up again, and steps carefully, deliberately back to his armchair. He flexes his hand once, then sits down and presses the soles of his feet together, as before. His expression now is at once sardonic and wary.

 _Wary._ Of Sherlock. Who hasn’t asked for any of this and is not the one who brought it up. (He would never have brought it up.)

 _Wary._ His anger spikes. He bites down on any words, stifles any deductions, and glares. 

***

As a counterpoint to Sherlock's simmering anger, John is calmer now. Not _bristling_ any longer. He says, “I’ve got bare feet.”

“I am not blind.” Clipped words, blank face.

“I took off my shoes on purpose. I planned that. Do you know why?”

“You told me why. You sat here before, when you thought I was dead, and your feet were bare then. Sentiment. _Maudlin_ sentiment at that.”

John ignores his tone. “That, yes. But also for me, to remind myself what I was here for.”

“You had three words to say. You required a reminder?”

“Yeah.” Here John pauses. Sherlock knows he finds this difficult, and his anger and defiance – which would have helped him get the words out – appear to have gone. “It was meant to, what I wanted to say, it was meant to be…” He glances at Sherlock from under his brows, looks away. It seems he can make eye contact or speak, but not both at once. “It was meant to be a, a gift.”

“A _gift?”_ A gift, those words, those precious words, _flung_ at him in surly defiance, only after John had lost everything else? A gift? “Is this how one gives _gifts_ , John?”

“Yes, fine, okay, you’re right. But I knew you wouldn’t want it, and I wanted to give it anyway.”

 _I knew you wouldn’t want it._ It was everything he wanted. He is too angry to say so. Also, whereas once he would have taken this gift any way it was offered, he does not want it like this. So John is right, in a way. Sherlock does not want this. Not this version, at least.

“You took off your shoes in order to give me a gift you knew I wouldn’t want.” That is as close as he will get to actually asking for an explanation.

“It made sense at the time. To remind me not to, not to…” John’s hands close into fists, his eyes squeeze shut and his head twists to the side before he finishes. “Not to hide.”

***

 _Not to hide._ And there he sits with everything closed. Speaking his words, but closing his eyes to avoid being seen, like a child afraid of monsters in the dark. This was John’s idea of _not hiding._

Sherlock feels a stab of pity, for John and his hiding. Unexpected and inconvenient. Reluctantly, he says, “You always hide.” (And saying it, realises it is true.)

“And you always see everything anyway.” Wry and resentful. Eyes still shut.

This, again. “No.” He has only ever been able to see _that_ John is hiding, not _what_ John is hiding. It has always been maddening.

Here John opens his eyes. “What do you mean, no?”

“What I said. No. Wrong. I don’t see what you hide. I see what you show.”

“What I show?” John frowns, but his eyes are open now.

“What you say. What you do.” Sherlock does not want to explain himself, but pity for John has dissipated his anger. He can concede that this is better than John walking out, but barely. It feels dangerous.

“And what does that tell you?”

“Nothing.” Suddenly, Sherlock wants his anger back. He grasps for the frayed edges of his rage but it eludes him. This is supposed to be about _John_. “Except that you’ve been angry at me for a long time.”

He hates how that sounds. He hates that it’s true.

John stares. Then whispers, “That’s all you saw?”

Sherlock has already conceded too much. He presses his lips together and raises his chin and does not respond.

***

John sits in his chair and _thinks._ Sherlock can see his sluggish notions _clunking_ this way and that, like tumblers in a lock. There is no way to tell if it will open.

Sherlock waits to hear what he will say. He reminds himself severely that John is not the only one who hides, that he has been doing it himself – in plain sight, admittedly, but still hiding. It is very unlikely that John will sort this out.

After several long minutes, John blinks out of his reverie and looks at Sherlock with something like horror. Sherlock prepares himself to deal with the next wrong conclusion, then next evidence that John has not understood him at all.

But John says, “I’m so sorry.” He blinks at him again and says, “I am so, so sorry.”

So perhaps he has understood after all.


	5. Chapter 5

John has said he is sorry, and John has meant it. Sherlock is certain of that much at least. John began this…what? Altercation. Confrontation. Conversation? He began it angry and resentful. Bristling. Bitter. Now his eyes are wide and staring, his face gone slack with dismay. 

And suddenly Sherlock cannot bear this. There are a thousand ways for this to end in disaster, even if John meant it, even if John has the first clue - unlikely - what he is actually sorry for. Sherlock cannot just sit and wait to see what John will say next, not if he wants to maintain his own...he rejects the word  _facade_ after a brief struggle with himself, though it would fit, and settles instead on  _integrity_. The integrity of his own heart, for all that hearts cannot actually _break_.

No, he knows a good offense is best. Luckily he is good at those.

His mouth makes a brisk pop before he speaks. “Is that it?” He makes an expansive, inquiring gesture with his hands.

John stirs, wary again. “Is that what?”

“Making sure I have it all." Sherlock ticks off the items on an invisible list. "You're in love with me. You thought I knew. I didn't, and you’re sorry. That’s fine. You’ve delivered your message, and your apology – which must have been difficult, seeing as you didn’t have time to _prepare_ it – and I’m just checking now if there’s anything else. Now that we've cleared up the last little…misunderstanding.”

“A little mis – _jesus,_ Sherlock.” John scrubs both hands over his face and through his hair. “Is that all it is?”

“You tell me. What difference would it have made, do you think, if I'd known?”

“What _difference?”_

“Do kindly stop repeating everything I say. Obviously you feel it would have made some difference if I’d known – or perhaps if you’d known I didn’t know. Which one is it?" Rapid-fire talk, sarcasm sparking with every gesture, every eye roll. John has always been vulnerable to this kind of attack, and Sherlock deploys it without mercy. "Well? Something you would have done differently? Or do you think the information would have altered anything for me? I am lacking sufficient data to deduce what _difference_ it would have made, since I don’t know how long you’ve harboured these…feelings. Still, you’re there with your mouth flapping open and looking all sad– _”_ here Sherlock apes John’s puppy dog eyes as mawkishly as possible “–so I have to conclude that you think that yes, it would have made a difference. Of some kind. I am merely asking _what_ difference you think it would have made. To me. Or to you. Or whatever you like. Since you seem to think it's important.” 

John will scoop his shoes up off the floor and be gone, now. Any moment.

***

John’s mouth has gone tight and grim, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he answers. “Yeah. It would. It would have made a bit of a difference in a few ways, yeah. I only, you know, got married. To–well. You know how well that worked out.”

“Indeed. You're right, I should have predicted all that. From the turn-ups on your jeans, perhaps? Though I do think that if it would have changed so much, you might have considered just, oh, I don't know. _Telling_ me. For a start. Just in case.” He tilts his head, shrugs. “But you didn’t. Perhaps it wasn't that important after all.”

 John’s gaze turns inward. “I was so sure it wouldn’t matter.” A pause. “Would it? Would it have made a difference to you?”

***

Sherlock regards John across the small stretch of carpet. If he even considers that question in the confines of his own mind, he will be utterly defeated. Instead he concentrates on maintaining a calm, clear gaze, and silence. _Impassive._

John sighs. “It’s all right, Sherlock. You don’t have to, to, to…spare my feelings. If that’s what this is. It’s fine, and I can’t blame that for my bad choices. I know, all right? It wouldn’t have made a difference to you at all. I know. I’ve always known.”

At that, Sherlock finds his voice again. “Oh? And how did you know?”

He means it sardonically, but even as he says it, he knows. He knows why John is so sure. _Always this._ The Fall, as he has taken to calling it in his head, with unspoken upper case letters, to complete the biblical analogy _._ He has not been able to excise that, to delete it, to deny the effect it had on John.

His anger twists, turns back on himself. A familiar feeling. Easier to manage, at any rate. Easier to contain.

Still, he does not want John to answer, now that he knows what the answer must be.  The words are out, though, and he can’t call them back. John will say it, and _sorry_ will not fix it, nor a thousand _sorrys_.

Forgiveness is one thing, but there are some things no penance or atonement will restore.

Sherlock knows. The penance he has set himself has been…harrowing. Perhaps John’s confession might seem to signal an end to it, but as usual – perhaps that is the only way for them? – they are getting tangled in anger and misunderstanding.

And blame. He waits for the blame. This is his fault, after all. It always comes back to this.

***

John only looks at him for a long time, though, and does not accuse. After a long moment, he says, “I know I was – harsh. Before, when I told you I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine.”

“Fine? It was – ” John’s face does something tight and rueful. “It wasn’t fine.”

“It was understandable. You were expressing a sentiment that you find inconvenient and distasteful. Are you supposed to sound happy about it?”

John blinks at him, his mouth opening slightly, his eyes going peculiarly expressive, as they do in those rare moments when the entire contents of his fiercely guarded heart become visible on his face. He draws a breath to speak, stops. Wets his lips and draws another breath. Blinks twice more. Another breath, but still no words.

It is pure poetry to suppose that the look on John’s face is in any way analogous to a dagger in Sherlock’s chest. The constriction he feels is completely psychosomatic, as he well knows. His heart and lungs are functioning as they always do. He will not actually die from this, no matter how much longer it goes on.

***

“I, um.” John is speaking now, if only barely. “I. It’s not, it's not. Well. Inconvenient? I mean, yes, it is, but that’s not – ” A huff of breath. _Consternation._ (John has always done that well.) Another blink. “I can’t…I can’t seem to say the right thing to you. Ever. It should be so simple. With anyone else, I’d just… ”

Sherlock looks at him, and then away. It is utterly inadvisable to look at him, or, god forbid, to speak. It is insanity to prolong this for even one more second. Self-destructive. He asks anyway. “You’d what, John?”

“I don’t know.” He looks off and to the side. “I was going to say I’d just tell them, or, fuck, I guess make a move, god, that sounds – I’ve never had a problem, figuring out what to say. Yeah. How to – fuck. But it’s stupid to try to compare any other time to this. Of course it’s easy when – ”

Now Sherlock does look at him. It is impossible that anything John might say next will improve things, but he’s in it now, and in spite of himself he wants to know. John here is better than John gone, even if John is only here to break his heart.

  _Psychosomatically._ Yes. But still painful.

“When what.” No inflection. But he keeps his gaze steady. "It's easy when what."

John flicks his eyes up, then away. Answers. “When I don’t care that much.”

***

The implications of what John has said hover between them, settling over the lead weight of his bitter and resentful declaration of love. Sherlock once again finds himself speechless, looking inward for some part of this that makes sense, that fits. He does not mark the passage of time.

He is too bewildered to notice when John finally heaves a long, drawn out sigh, and reaches for his shoes. Too perplexed by his own shifting thoughts to observe the precise tension of the laces, the neat bows, left, right. Too adrift to catch the last, wistful look that John levels at him before his shoulders slump in defeat and he rises, nods once, and heads towards the door.

"I am sorry, Sherlock. For everything. We don't...we don't have to talk about this again. I probably shouldn't have..." A final sigh. "Goodbye."

 _Goodbye_ sinks in, somehow, and Sherlock surfaces, to see John looking small and resigned in the doorway. It becomes imperative that he say something right now, anything at all, to stop John from leaving. Why, when a few minutes ago all he wanted was to be alone with his anger and his silence? There is no answer, but the necessity of speech is undeniable.

"John." John pauses, but doesn't turn.  _Not enough_. Then - "I think...I think you're not angry anymore. With me."

John looks up. "No. Not with you."

"Then perhaps..." And it is so clear now, what he wants. What to say that will stop John leaving. "You came here with something important to say."

"And bollocksed it up rather spectacularly, yes."

Sherlock drops his last defense. "Perhaps you could sit down and say it again."

Their eyes meet.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stops hiding, for real this time, and Sherlock is running out of defenses to cling to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say I'd continue this story, didn't I? Didn't I? Okay, I also said "soon", but "soon" is such a relative, subjective kind of term.  
> Un-beta'd. Let me know if I used the wrong _lay_ , or the wrong _discreet_ , or (god forbid) the wrong _there_.

John stares at him from the doorway. He turns, looks over his shoulder, down the stairs—surely he won’t leave now? But no, he nods once and moves, step by careful step, back to his chair. Frowns.

“You want me to...say it again?” Surprise. Wariness. Hesitation.

Sherlock gives a slow nod. He cannot take his eyes off John. When John does meet his gaze, he can feel his body trembling.

John opens his mouth to speak but stops. He shifts his weight, leans back, makes to cross his legs, but then doesn’t. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Clasps his hands together. Looks up at Sherlock past raised eyebrows that make deep ridges across his brow. Still doesn’t speak.

Sherlock looks at the floor, where John’s feet are back in his shoes and his laces are snug and tidy. They tell him all he needs to know about confessions and missed opportunities.

It is ridiculous. John has already said what he came here to say, he’s only been asked to say it again so that Sherlock has a hope of responding the way he wants to. It’s out already, there, between them, on the carpet. _It is already said._ But there he is, as speechless as ever.

***

Another long moment passes.

Sherlock sighs his defeat. He speaks softly. “Is it so terrible a thing, then, that you can only say it when you’re angry?” He doesn’t raise his eyes to ask.

“No.” Swiftly. “No, it’s not…that’s not…” A cough, and a frustrated sigh. He gazes at Sherlock helplessly—then he appears to have an idea.

He bends, and unties his shoes again.

 _Ah._ Unexpected. There are deductions to be made here, but they are coming slowly, like a developing photograph. They are not quite ready yet for him to look at.

Instead he watches John’s neat fingers tug at the laces and pull at the heels, watches him slip his socks down his ankles, watches him turn them right side out and tuck them away, one into each shoe, and make them tidy on the floor.

Then he tucks his bare feet together again, and looks at them for several long moments. Not struggling, but resting. No, _mustering._

When he looks up the frustration and uncertainty are gone from his face. “No,” he says again. And suddenly, the words come freely. “Not so terrible. Or rather, at times, yes, terrible. When I would think that maybe we’d had a chance, but that it was too late now, that I’d missed it, yeah, that was, that’s pretty terrible.” He meets Sherlock’s eyes in little glances, in between looking at the carpet and the ceiling. He stutters, but keeps going. “In another way, though, this is…I don’t know how this is going to sound, but…towards the end, when I realised how much of my, of what I thought was real was, was, um, wasn’t at all. Then at least then I could take, it’s like I had it to take out and look at.” He holds his hands in front of him as he talks, cups them side by side, holds them aloft, almost, as a priest might hold a chalice during a consecration, as though he’s holding something precious. “I could look at it, and almost, almost hold it in my hands, what I felt for you, and look at it and say, yeah, that’s real. It, um. It hurt. It hurts. But it’s, it’s real, and it’s _me_ , does that make sense? And maybe the only real part of me I have left. So, no. Not terrible.” He meets Sherlock’s eyes now, unflinching. “I love you, and I’m sorry for, for a lot of things. Really, um. Really sorry.” He winces, gives a wry, mirthless laugh. “But not for that. It’s not terrible, and I don’t have to be angry to say it.” He blinks, and Sherlock thinks he has run himself out at last, but then he says, “There. And here, again: I love you. I am in love with you.”

It is the longest speech Sherlock has ever heard John make. It is also profoundly shocking, in a way his earlier belligerent declaration did not even approach. Only the words are the same. Now, without the anger obscuring the enormity of John’s words, Sherlock can finally _see._

The bare feet, vulnerable. The cupped hands, cherishing. The precious words, given up now with no expectations. Poured out into the ground. A gift.

An offering.

***

“It’s just.” John, after that incredible speech, is not finished. “It’s.” Or maybe he is, at least with the complete sentences. He looks back at his hands, which are clasped again, as his elbows rest on his knees. “I’m sorry for this, too. Springing this on you. If I’d known you didn’t know, I’d have let you stay...I don’t—I thought I knew, I thought I’d—Now I don’t—god, this seemed like such a good idea. I don’t know how to finish this.”

At _finish this_ , Sherlock’s head snaps up. _No._ Was that what this is all about, finishing this? John came here to convey his final message and then leave? For good this time? Even more completely than when he got married?

 _Hah._ This is just their sort of defective, that John could marry someone else and still in some way be _with Sherlock_ , but take off his shoes and declare his love and have _that_ be the finish.

Is that what this is? He can’t ask. Or rather, he could, but he has already used up his store of indifference and coldness, and if he asks, it will be obvious—everything will be obvious.

He plays for time. “‘Finish this.’” It is idiotic to simply parrot John’s own words, but he can hardly even manage to hint at a question mark after the words without showing John how lost he is.

John doesn’t notice. His hands clasp and unclasp. “I don’t know how this conversation is supposed to end. If that’s what this is.”

Sherlock manages to conceal his intense relief, but it is a near thing. _Finish the conversation._ That’s all.

The receding stress makes him snippy. “Of course that’s what this is. We’re sitting, we’re talking. What else would it be?”

John gives a tight shrug. “ _I’m_ talking. You haven’t said much.”

What can he possibly say? He can feel the uncertainty written across his face, in the slackening of his jaw and the stinging tightness around his eyes. There is nothing he can think of to say, now that his anger has fled. Silence is his last defense, and he is painfully aware of how flimsy it is. _Better than nothing._

“Not that you have to say anything.” John fills the silence with his own internal debate. “You didn’t ask for any of this. But I. I had everything all wrong and now…”

“Now?” Sherlock asks, in spite of himself. Parroting.

John opens his hands, at a loss. “Now I’ve no idea what you’re thinking at all.”

 _Thank god,_ Sherlock thinks...then looks again at John’s hopeless face and stops short.

_I’ve no idea what you’re thinking at all._

Of course John doesn’t know. He doesn’t know because Sherlock hasn’t told him. Has, in fact, done everything possible to avoid telling him, to prevent him from having the slightest inkling. And because of that, here is John, lost. And for that Sherlock is... _grateful?_

John, with everything he’s lost, is the one who came. He brought it with him, in his two hands like a chalice, this one real thing, to offer it to Sherlock. He took down his own defenses, and waited.

There he sits, his feet bare and his heart plain, and Sherlock is still sitting before him, clinging to silence. _Unacceptable,_ he thinks. When did he become such a coward?

Because whatever else this offering of John’s might mean, perhaps it’s evidence sufficient to suggest that John might also be willing to…

...to receive such a offering from Sherlock.

 _Ah._ And just like that, his choice is made.

“John, I—” he begins, but no words come. He tries again. “That is, I—” But the words stick in his throat, struggle to remain unsaid. (Silence is a difficult habit to break, apparently.)

He sees John draw another breath to speak, and if he lets John derail him it will be too easy to stay derailed and never say these words at all, these words that _won’t form_ and refuse to be said.

Then a bloom of clarity unfurls in his mind for how he can outsmart the obstinate words.

He bends, and unlaces his own shoes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels the meeting of their eyes like a blast of air, hot, percussive. They both recoil; actually physically recoil, from the force of the eye contact. As if in the shockwave from an explosion. 
> 
> _No, not an explosion_ , Sherlock thinks. _A demolition_. 
> 
> Demolition indeed. But is it the annihilation of the fragile, precarious foundations they have just barely managed to lay, or the leveling of their last defensive walls?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. I'm hoping that's not too glaringly obvious.

John stares.

Sherlock can feel John’s eyes on him, for all that he keeps his own down, looks only at his fingers as they loosen the laces of his oxfords. He uses his toes to slide them off his heels, letting them fall to the floor with a _thunk_. His socks—no, they have to come off as well. He pulls them off in two quick movements and tosses them off to the side. He kicks his shoes out of the way and settles his feet flat on the floor.

He sits, body straight, hands on knees, bare feet pressed to the carpet. He swallows, and looks up.

John _stares._

And, _oh_ , the expression on his face. The little mouth, turned down at the corners, tight, thin, lips pressed together. The brows drawn low, in what would be a frown, but for the eyes, so wide, so shocked _._

John’s wide, shocked eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s bare feet.

He sees, oh god, he must certainly see Sherlock’s meaning in this. It can’t mean anything else. John took off his shoes to tell Sherlock that he loves him, took them off so he couldn’t flee and couldn’t hide. Took them off and offered Sherlock this one real thing. Sherlock’s bare feet must surely tell him everything he needs to know.

But all he does is stare, shocked. Shocked...and afraid. _Afraid, after all this?_ Yes, afraid. As if he’s still expecting to be hurt.

They sit there, stuck. Both with their bared soles on the rough surface of the carpet, and neither with anything to say. Sherlock feels he should speak, should say something. As if, as if it’s his turn. John has already said so much. But if he thought that uncovering his feet would unstopper his words, it seems he was mistaken.

***

There are still so many things he doesn’t know. John has unburdened himself, has uncovered himself, sufficient to tell Sherlock how he feels, to offer Sherlock his heart. But it is impossible to ignore the reality, that there around John’s bare feet his life lies in ruins.

John has stepped directly from the wreckage of his life into the sitting room at 221B and if Sherlock looks closely (and Sherlock always looks closely) he will see the cinders and debris settling all around John, on his jumper, on his trousers, on the carpet at his feet and on his discarded shoes.

What should they do with this wreckage? John came to Sherlock with his love only when he had lost everything else. The rubble has not been cleared. The dust has barely settled. By any reckoning, this is not a solid foundation upon which to build anything at all, not if they expect it to last.

Sherlock knows about ruin, knows that its effects can happen in waves upon waves, long after the cataclysm appears to be over. Knows the futility of expecting to step away from it with no more harm done than a little dust on one's clothes. Knows himself that when he tried to ignore the devastation he was stepping out of, it only served to spread the destruction outward from wherever he stood, continually. Perpetually. He can see the rippled aftershocks of his own ruin still settling in front of him, his dust and ashes mingled with John’s.

 _Mingled with John’s._ John’s life is in ruins and it is partly Sherlock’s ruin. They ought to clear the mess away before they try to be together; they cannot clear the mess away unless they are together.

***

“I, ah.” He needs to _say something._ He looks at his own bare feet and they give him no clues whatsoever. “I find it difficult, this sort, this sort of…”

“I know,” John says. John does know.

“When I first came back from, from—” Oh god. _Is this as far as I’ll get?_ Should he even have come this far? Where, even, is he going?

“Your hiatus?” A euphemism, without bitterness. John is being kind.

“My death.” Because that’s how John saw it, how he still sees it. _Call it what it is, to him._ Because it was a death, to John. To Sherlock, too. “Death.”

John’s toes flex, curl. Resettle. “All right, yes.”

“When I first came back, I thought...I wasn’t expecting—” He huffs a breath. “You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting your, your anger. I thought—I didn’t think. I had no idea you would be so affected.”

A glance at John shows his jaw has tightened. He is trying not to fall back into anger.

Sherlock plunges on. “Obviously it was a mistake. On my part. Not to realise.”

John shifts, his gaze and his weight. “Sherlock, we’ve been over this. It’s behind us. You don’t have to—”

“I do have to, I do have to. Shut up, will you? It isn’t behind us. It’s right here in this room. It isn’t behind us. It’s _between_ us.”

The suddenness of Sherlock’s words, when he was stuttering and halting only a moment before, the speed with which they have burst from his mouth, stops them both in their tracks, startles them both into raising their eyes at the same time.

Sherlock feels the meeting of their eyes like a blast of air, hot, percussive. They both recoil, actually, physically recoil, from the force of the eye contact. As if in the shockwave from an explosion.

 _No, not an explosion_ , Sherlock thinks. _A demolition_.

Demolition indeed. But is it the annihilation of the fragile, precarious foundations they have just barely managed to lay, or the leveling of their last defensive walls?

A moment later, he has his answer, because of John’s _eyes_.

John’s wide, uncertain, _frightened_ eyes. John, who still (it seems) does not know what Sherlock is thinking. What Sherlock _feels_ , what Sherlock has felt so strongly for so long that he has been sure it must shine out of his head like a beacon whenever he hears John’s name, and John _does not know,_ and is still baring his feet and speaking his heart and meeting Sherlock’s eyes and taking what may come, and he is _so hurt_ and _so brave_ and Sherlock’s anger has vanished, has gone, as if it never was, and the last of his walls has crumbled the the ground with hardly a sound.

Whatever he was trying to explain has evaporated. Because there is John, expecting to be hurt again, to be hurt _by Sherlock_ , and Sherlock wants only to wrap him in his arms, in his body, in his very _skin_ , and spare him even the briefest moment of pain because Sherlock loves him and loves him and _loves him._

“I love you.” Blurted, unpolished, harsh, raw. But it is the truth, and Sherlock meets John’s eye without wavering and says it again. “I love you.” (He understands John’s defiance now.)

***

John doesn’t speak, his expression hardly flickers. He has met Sherlock’s eyes and heard his words and he _has not moved,_ he is motionless, frozen.

 _Why is John not moving?_ But in fairy tales, the incantation must be spoken three times for the magic to work. Sherlock has no idea why he has retained this, and what circuitous route it must have taken to come into his conscious mind just now, but he knows it now without a doubt. Three times, and the true name of the beloved.

And he can say it, he is able to say it, he is able to say it all.

“John. John Watson. John _Hamish_ Watson, I love you.” And then, because he can’t see how a fourth time could do any harm, once the spell is uttered, he says it again. “I love you too.”

***

He watches John carefully. At first glance, he appears to still be frozen, but as Sherlock watches, he can see that John is trembling, almost imperceptibly. His eyes, still wide, are brimming now, with unshed tears. His hands twitch in his lap, and the trembling turns to shudders.

Sherlock’s whole body seizes in response to John’s distress, moves unbidden to launch itself at John, but John’s whole body jolts backwards, and his whole manner forbids Sherlock to move. _Touch me not_ , Sherlock’s mind offers, and he wonders again what else may be hidden in his own mind that he thought was deleted long since.

He has to touch John. John, trembling before him. He has to touch John, and make this real, but John is pressed back in his chair, as far from Sherlock as he can get without actually moving. He is shuddering ever more violently.

 _Their bare feet are resting on the floor. The distance between them is small._ It is not a chasm, though it has appeared to be one many, many times. It is small.

Sherlock is on the floor before he can think, has dropped his head, has folded at the knees. His hands reach out, reach down. They pause a little— _this is holy ground—_ and then, with a long sigh, he lets them rest on the tops of John’s feet.

***

John startles when Sherlock lays hands on him, one violent jerk of his body, before he is still. For the space of a breath, two breaths, three, no one moves.

In that moment of stillness, everything is possible. John could shout, or flee, or—as with any divine vision too holy to be real—vanish altogether. (Sherlock does not believe in divinity or holiness, but he wishes distantly that he’d washed his hands and feet.)

Sherlock would like to stay where he is, sitting on his heels at John’s feet, leaning on his hands, breathing, breathing, breathing, forever. John is frozen, has not moved, has not reacted to Sherlock’s—admittedly extraordinary—gesture, and so Sherlock feels able to simply inhabit the moment for as long as he can.

The spell breaks quietly, gradually. John stirs, that is all. Sherlock can feel the difference in his body, from before, when he was frozen, to now, when he is merely still. But then he does move, he moves one arm, and in another moment his hand settles.

On Sherlock’s head. His hand, warm, has settled in Sherlock’s hair.

 _Oh._ Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut, and then relax so that they are only closed,and the breath flows out of him. There is a gentle, gentle pressure on his head, drawing him towards John’s knee. He is sure it is not imagined.

The tension drains out of his whole body, and he lets his head be held against John’s knee.

They rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would be the ending, but there are one or two more maneuverings that need to happen.
> 
> Bible references, all from the King James Version:   
> John 20:17 "Jesus saith to her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father..."  
> Exodus 3:5 "And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground."  
> Matthew 28:9 "...And they came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him."
> 
>  
> 
> Um. Do I need to say it? Is it not a truth universally acknowledged that a fic writer, having published a story, or even just a chapter, must be in want of a comment?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They won't be allowed to rest there forever. There is a little more to say.

Hand on head, head on knee, hands on feet. Breathing. 

_Resting._ They have come to a place where they can pause, where they can rest. _Inhale, exhale._ Sherlock feels his weight settle. _Inhale, exhale._

Their breaths and their heartbeats fill the room, fill the time. While they rest.

 _Inhale, exhale._ Sherlock thinks distantly that on the next breath he will speak, he will be ready, but the next breath comes and goes and he doesn’t, he isn’t. The warmth of John’s leg presses against his temple and the weight of John’s hand rests in his hair. _Inhale, exhale._

Perhaps they will be allowed to do this forever.

***

They will not. Of course they won’t. They will need more talking, it is inevitable. Parsing their meanings, defining their terms. When Sherlock says _love_ , he knows what he means, he means with his whole heart and his whole self. 

He means with his whole body, too, and a warm hand on soft curls is only the beginning. Is it for John, as well? What does John mean, when he says _love_?

Sherlock does not trust this openness. John, though his bare feet are delicate and quiet under Sherlock’s hands, remains a mystery. He has laid bare his feelings and Sherlock still does not know—does not know _John_. For all the bareness of John’s feet, and the ragged honesty of John’s words.

If he knew John, if John was anything other than the deepest mystery to him, he would be sure, but as it is…A hand in his hair does not mean John will want, will want. 

Will want what Sherlock wants.

 _A hand in his hair._ If he does not move, perhaps he will not lose this.

***

They are not young, though, and the this rug does little to cushion the hard floor. Sherlock shifts on his knees, only slightly, but with his movement John quivers into awareness and time resumes.

John jerks and twitches, nervous. Their ease has vanished. “I don’t—Sherlock, I don’t want you on the floor.” His hand that was warm in Sherlock’s hair tugs instead on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t—I should—”

John with his endless crippling _shoulds_. 

Sherlock knows he hasn’t got this wrong, this much at least. He resists. He _resists,_ and there is a tussle, as John grips and pulls at Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock muffles his face in John’s trouser leg and _holds on._

“Goddamn it, Sherlock.” John gives up suddenly and slithers to the floor. “I should be a _your_ feet.”

What follows is graceless and uncoordinated: Sherlock rears backwards to avoid a knee to the face, but overbalances, rolling off the back of his own foot to land with a thump on his bottom. His feet fly out from under him and he is saved from toppling only by the presence of his chair, which scrapes back an inch or two at the impact.

John’s feet stay planted as he falls, as there is no room to extend them, and his knees end up practically up around his own ears, squished as he is between his chair and his own ungainly angles. 

Stunned and lopsided on his arse, Sherlock looks at John and John almost smiles.

No, no, not almost, John _does_ smile, and it is almost his old smile, no, it _is_ his old smile, and Sherlock’s mouth twitches in response, and in another moment the gravity in the room has vanished and they are laughing. 

Giggling. _Hooting,_ even. Like they’ve always done. _Ridiculous_. Like they’ve always been.

Oh.

 _That’s John, there._

The recognition hits him hard, right beneath his sternum. _That’s John._ He _knows_ John. Has always known him. Not the John he saw when he first walked in today, closed and unseeable, nothing to do with laces or deductions. _John._ Just him.

It doesn’t always have to be clever.

***

When next they take a steady breath together, there is John. _John’s smile_. The shadows have all but fled. 

Sherlock can feel himself staring. John says, “Hi.”

 _Preposterous._ “Hello.”

There is a little silence. _Say something._ So Sherlock asks, “What now?” Perhaps John knows.

John’s smile turns a little rueful. “Right, um. I didn’t actually have a plan. After the initial…”

“Declaration.” _Love and war._

“Yes. I thought you’d be angry. Or maybe...scathing. I definitely didn’t expect…” His eyes flick to Sherlock’s, his meaning clear.

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “Nor did I.” The look they share is wry and affectionate. Warm. And something else, something Sherlock can’t quite name, but wants to.

A beat, then: “I also didn’t expect us both to be here at the end of it.”

 _The shoes, though_. John thought that Sherlock might leave, but John himself came here and planned to stay. In spite of Sherlock’s possible anger, in spite of his own instinct to hide, his own drive to flee. Whatever else John wants, John was...John _is_ planning to stay. The realisation sits on Sherlock’s chest for a moment, solid.

“Thank you,” John says then.

 _What?_ He peers at John. “What for?”

A twist to John’s smile. “Still being here.” He meets Sherlock’s eyes, straight on. “Yeah. Um. Thank you for still being here.”

The layers of John’s meaning show in the unfolding of his face. It is a moment before Sherlock can respond. 

When he does, his words also go deep. “John. I’ve always been here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted the day before the airing of The Final Problem and the subsequent deaths of most of the fandom. If you wish to bring me back to life, comments work on fic writers in much the same way that clapping works on fairies.
> 
> 9th and final chapter is written and will likely be posted later today.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is offered is accepted.

Something shifts between them. The talking...has reached a stopping point. They’ve said a great deal of what needed to be said. _I love you,_ John has said, and is no longer angry about it. _I love you too,_ from Sherlock. Both with their bared feet. What else is there?

_What else there is_ vibrates now beneath their affection, seems to shimmer and grow. They share a long look across the carpet, and while Sherlock still can’t name what it’s laden with, it feels...right. 

Perhaps John knows what it is. His voice is carefully casual as he twitches a smile and says, “Budge up.” 

They’re still on the floor. John crosses the space and settles beside Sherlock. Sherlock stretches his legs out in front of him to make room.

Their shoulders touch. Sherlock’s heart beats a little faster.

Something has _definitely_ shifted. 

They sit for a moment, wide-eyed, staring straight in front of them, John’s head slightly lowered, Sherlock’s the barest bit raised. Sherlock hears John take a quick breath, and another, and marvels that he can hear him at all over the sound of his own pounding heart. 

“Sherlock—” John’s hand clenches in his lap, once. Then he flexes his fingers, takes a breath—and lets his hand come to rest on Sherlock’s leg.

There is no distance at all between them now. Perhaps there never really was, perhaps it was imagined, all this time. 

Sherlock forces himself to breathe, manages two quick gasps before, by sheer will, releasing all his air in a long, slow exhale. His whole body sinks a little into the floor, just as the warmth of John’s palm makes its way through the fabric of his trousers to his skin.

Sherlock feels rather than sees the flick of a glance that John casts, sideways, up at his face. John’s hand slides, once, down towards his knee, and then back. He squeezes a little, hesitates, then says, “Is this—?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, probably too quickly. Then, steadier: “Yes.” 

“I wasn’t sure you would want—”

“I do.” Again, too quick. Clumsy. _Obvious._ John won’t— 

But John turns and looks up at him and it’s like the sun rising, all delight and shining adoration. 

Sherlock _knows_ this look of John’s. Is this what it has always meant?

Sherlock turns his head as well, and sees John’s smile, full on. He’s so close. Sherlock could… Sherlock _could._ He could. It is less than John risked, coming here.

He bends, frowns a little. Looks at John’s mouth, then his eyes, one at a time, searching. 

_Is this…?_

_Yes._

He dips his head, and their mouths meet.

***

_Their mouths meet._ There should be earthquakes and cataclysms, but no. They can touch. This ground is no longer forbidden. 

When Sherlock raises his hand to John’s face, it is allowed to rest there, and his fingers to travel over the lines around John’s mouth, around his eyes. He presses John’s jaw and John’s mouth opens, and it is allowed and it is so, so... _good._

_John’s open mouth_. Smooth and wet and, and... _intimate_. Vulnerable. Offered willingly, now. Where his confession was defiant and reluctant and resentful, this is unforced. Eager. _Joyful_. 

Joyful. There is a tremble in John’s lips as he kisses and it is _joy_ and Sherlock doesn’t even bother to wonder how he knows that. And when Sherlock’s tongue slips into John’s mouth, the noise that John makes is a joyful noise.

_Oh, wonderful_. 

The floor is hard and the angles difficult, but they turn and twist their bodies, seeking contact where they can. 

Sherlock needs, Sherlock _needs_ this, suddenly. It is not just wanting. His hand on John’s face clenches, slides, pressing and gripping, down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He needs to gather all of John in to himself. To claim this intimacy that should always have been theirs. 

Or to _re_ claim it. The heat of John’s skin, the smell of John’s mouth under his own, the heft of John’s body under his hands—it is already so familiar. His hands and his mouth and his senses already seem to know this, this country. 

_This promised land._

Good _lord_. Has he lost all control of his own thoughts? Is it all to be fairy tales and sacred stories from the forgotten depths of his mind when the holiest offering of all is here under his own hands? 

Sherlock has John’s mouth open under his, is breathing in John’s voice. He sets his hand down deliberately on John’s shoulder, then John’s hip, pressing his hand, step by step, down John’s body, until he wraps it carefully around John’s bare foot, John’s first offering.

_Sacrifice._ The word surfaces, unbidden in the rising warmth of their bodies. _To give up something that is precious. An offering to a higher_...he struggles with himself a moment... _principle._

He knows the word, of course. (Intimately.) Latin: _sacer—_ holy—and _facio—_ to make. To _make holy._ To offer up something that is precious, and thereby make it holy.

Is that what they’ve done?

***

“John.” 

Sherlock pulls away, with difficulty. He cannot go far, though, cannot tear himself further away than to rest his head on John’s. There is one more thing he needs to know.

John’s chin tilts, tries to follow Sherlock’s mouth, but he stills when Sherlock speaks. Eyes closed, foreheads touching. “Yeah?”

How to ask? “Is this…?” He presses his lips together, winces at his own ineptitude. “Is this forgiveness?”

“ _Oh._ ” John lets out a long breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “God, I—” He swallows. “Please, I—” His voice catches. Then John draws back and opens his eyes, and Sherlock has never seen them look so _full_. “God, Sherlock, I hope so.” They stare at each other. Those are tears glittering on John’s lashes. “I hope so. Is it?”

_Is it?_ John is asking…? As if, as if... _oh._ As if it is Sherlock’s to give, when John, too, has lost so much. Has _sacrificed. Is it?_

So few words. But they have always inhabited the unspoken. Sherlock hears what John is offering. Is asking for. _Forgiveness._ Something else it seems they already had.

So there is only one answer that Sherlock can give. “Yes,” he offers, willingly, freely. “Oh, god, John, yes. That is, if you—”

“ _Yes._ ” 

There are no more questions after this. Their mouths find each other again. 

It tastes like absolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ring the bells that still can ring_  
>  Forget your perfect offering.  
> There is a crack, a crack in everything.  
> That's how the light gets in.  
> That's how the light gets in. 
> 
> (Leonard Cohen)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, friends, for staying with this odd little fic for all this time. You've been marvellous company.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Russian available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6054684).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for Offering](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649630) by [justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch)




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